


And Then, One Thursday Night...

by jackabelle73



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non magic AU, kid!belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 05:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackabelle73/pseuds/jackabelle73
Summary: A chance meeting on an ordinary weeknight, that will change two lives as they each go their own way.





	And Then, One Thursday Night...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt sent by @emospritelet: 28: love confession and 21: “They’re wrong about you" I thought it would be a few hundred words. And 6K words later… I don't usually write Rumbelle this way, but this was the idea that my brain latched onto, in response to the prompt. Beta reading by @bookwormchocaholic. Lovely banner created by @missyhelped.

Mr. Gold paused inside the door, taking his sunglasses off and tucking them in an inside pocket, letting his eyes adjust after the glare of the setting sun. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long. After spending all day at his shop, he still needed to collect rent from a few tenants, then he would be ready to go home, put his feet up, and relax with some good food and good Scotch. He’d do a bit of work as well, of course… he was always keeping tabs on local real estate for sale, to add to his acquisitions, but he planned to mostly relax and enjoy a quiet evening alone. 

The library always seemed to need some sort of repair or improvement, certainly much more often than his other properties. Of course, the building had some age on it. A good renovation was called for, but that would mean closing operations for several months and the mayor shut him down every time he suggested it. The town needed its library, she insisted, though he certainly couldn’t see any proof that Storybrooke citizens were using its services to improve themselves. 

The library didn’t seem to be busy on this Thursday evening. Two high school students were at the computer station, but judging by the amount of whispering and nudging going back and forth, he doubted they were engrossed in their studies. Another patron was barely visible from where he stood, curled up in an armchair by the window, and that person -- a young girl, judging by the small size, the long chestnut hair, and the child-sized backpack on the floor -- was actually reading a book. 

“Oh, Mr. Gold! I’m glad you’re here.” Mrs. Parrish, the town librarian, emerged from between the rows of shelves. She was a fiftyish woman with short red hair that always seemed in varying states of frizziness. She ran her domain with an organized efficiency that Gold respected, and in turn, he tried to answer quickly when she alerted him that repairs were needed. “The problem is in the back.” 

She turned and led the way, and he followed, careful to place his cane down gently on the hardwood floors, so as not to make noise. He believed in the sanctity of the library, unlike the two teenage boys in the computer section, who were getting louder. Mrs. Parrish stopped in front of them, folding her arms and giving them an unimpressed look.

“Sean. Frederick,” she greeted them, as Gold circled behind to get a look at their screens. “And what might we be working on today, that has you so excited that you’ve forgotten the library is a quiet place?” 

“History homework,” Frederick said hastily, pressing buttons and making the pictures of female models in skimpy bathing suits disappear. 

“The history of the string bikini?” Gold asked. “I’m sure your parents will want to visit your class, on the day you present your findings. 

“Well, it’s not really a presentation…” Sean stuttered.

“Maybe you could go back to finding sources on the Middle Ages, like you said you would,” Mrs. Parrish suggested before walking away.

Gold continued toward the back, hearing the whispers start again, though this time the boys sounded less amused. At least they were minding their volume. 

He joined Mrs. Parrish where she stood beneath an obvious water stain on the ceiling. 

“There was a leak in the apartment above,” she explained. “We stopped it for now, but I don’t want it to get any worse. If water came down through the ceiling here, look at all the books it would damage!” she said, gesturing at the tomes around them. 

“Well, we don’t want that,” he murmured. “I’ll go up to the apartment and get a better idea of what’s needed, and update you before I leave. 

“Thank you, Mr. Gold. Excuse me, I should get back to my patrons,” she said as a _ ding-ding-ding _ came from the circulation desk. 

He ascended the stairs in the employee-only area, and spent a few minutes poking around the quaint lodgings on the second floor. At one time, it was customary for the head librarian to live here, with the free accommodation considered part of the compensation package. However, Mrs. Parrish was married when she took the position years ago, and already living with her husband and children elsewhere, so the apartment had been vacant for some time. It was a waste of real estate, he decided, as he inspected the rooms for any other problems aside from the leak. The place seemed to be in good condition, and wouldn’t require much work to get it ready for a new tenant. There was no reason he couldn’t rent it out to someone other than the librarian, if he added an outside staircase to make it accessible without going through the library.

He locked the door behind him and made his way back downstairs to make his report. She was checking out books for Sean and Frederick, who seemed to have done some historical research after all, judging by the titles they were borrowing. It appeared that he’d be waiting a moment, so he ambled between the shelves to see if anything struck his fancy. He seldom borrowed from the library, preferring to buy his books and add them to his own library at home, but he could look at the offerings here. 

Whispered voices carried from the other side of the bookcase, and something about their tone made him stop to listen. He’d been the object of schoolyard taunts too often as a boy, to ever forget that particular mocking voice used by bullies everywhere. Growing up in Glasgow, with the town drunk for a father and an non-existent mother, the younger him hadn’t had a chance on the schoolyard. He hadn’t had anything, which was why his life goal now was to acquire as much as he could. 

Even now, at thirty years old and well armoured in his adult success, tailored suit, wealth, and intimidating reputation, the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he listened to the teasing. He peered between the books, gauging the situation. 

Four girls, who looked to be around ten to twelve years old, had surrounded the young girl he’d noticed earlier in the armchair by the window. He couldn’t see the hapless victim from here. She’d shrunk back in the cushions, making herself as small as possible. He fought his instinct to intervene immediately, knowing that adult interference often made matters worse. Perhaps the faceless girl in the chair could handle the situation herself. 

“See, girls? I told you we’d find the little bookworm here.” 

Kelly Green, who had spoken, was easily identified by her bright red hair. The other three all had dark hair, and were turned away from him, making it harder to see who they were.

“Yeah, sitting by herself, reading,” another girl said, reaching out toward their target. A quiet gasp told him the bully had made contact; maybe she’d administered a pinch. He thought that voice belonged to Lily Page, the daughter of Mal, with whom he’d had business dealings.

“Not like she has any friends to hang out with.” 

“Who’d want to be friends with the weirdo?” This last insult was from Kelly again, who seemed to be the ringleader. 

By now, three of the girls were leaning in close to their captive, getting in her personal space, and he’d waited long enough. He rounded the end of the shelf, letting himself be seen, and they immediately backed up at the appearance of an adult. 

“Hi, Mr. Gold,” one of the girls said brightly, and he recognized her now. Ivy Tremaine, whose mother he also knew, unfortunately. The younger girl next to her was her sister, Stacy. 

A frightened face with large blue eyes peered around the back of the chair to him. It was the florist’s daughter, he realized, now that he could see more than her hair. The family had moved here from Australia, less than a year ago. He hadn’t had any dealings with them, as they didn’t rent from him and he had no one to whom to send flowers, but newcomers to Storybrooke were rare enough that the family’s arrival had caused a small stir. 

He surveyed the four girls, who were trying too hard to look innocent. 

“Ladies,” he greeted them with a nod. “What’s going on here?” 

“Oh, we’re all just hanging out,” Lily said, with an ease that spoke of habitual lying.

“Yeah, we love the library,” Ivy said, as Stacy stepped behind her. 

“And these are all our favorite books!” Kelly exclaimed, grabbing the top book from the pile on the table. “I love _ The Hunchback of… N-- Notre Dame _,” she said, mangling the pronunciation of the gothic cathedral. 

“_Notre Dame _,” the girl in the chair hissed, speaking for the first time and pronouncing the French words perfectly. 

“Whatever--” Kelly retorted, then looked at him and reconsidered. “I mean, sure, Belle. Thanks for telling me.” 

The three of them, not counting the youngest still hiding behind her sister, still had those too-bright smiles plastered on their faces, looking as if it was physically painful to continue projecting kindness. They waited, clearly expecting him to move on, or continue the conversation, or give them some cue about how to behave. He let them wait, till they began to shoot sideways looks at each other and even Belle was peering around the chair at him again, as though wondering what he was doing behind her. 

“Is there… something you need, Mr. Gold?” Lily finally broke the silence. 

“Yes, there is.” He moved closer, positioning himself beside the armchair and prompting the girls to back away. “You can drop this pretense that the four of you weren’t just bullying Miss French.” 

“We weren’t--”

“Save it.” He cut them off. “I was standing behind the books, just there. I heard and saw everything.” He let his words sink in, and gave them a few seconds to wonder what he’d do next. “So here’s what’s going to happen, ladies. You’re going to apologize to Miss French, and walk out of here. And should you ever again be tempted to bully her -- or anyone else -- like you did today, you should remember that I know all your parents. And I’m sure you don’t want me to visit your parents and tell them I witnessed their daughter being a cruel and insufferable brat. Do you?”

They all shook their heads, eyes downcast to the floor. 

“Well, go on. Apologize to Miss French.” 

“Sorry, Belle,” they muttered, petulant. 

“And hand that library book back to her.” The item was held out silently. “Now go… and remember what I said.” 

The three older girls shoved each other trying to get out of his sight, looking fearfully over their shoulders till they exited the doors. Stacy lagged behind just long enough to make eye contact with Belle and whisper, “Sorry,” before she hurried to catch up with the others. 

“Are you all right?” he asked Belle, once they were gone. 

“Um, yeah,” she replied, looking a little shell-shocked. “I mean, yes, sir.”

She stood up from the chair, brushing down her long blue skirt, and he realized that she was significantly more petite than any of the girls who had just left. He didn’t think she was younger; apparently, she was just small for her age. He’d been the smallest in his class, as well. He knew how diminutive size could be perceived as weakness, and single out a child for negative attention. He felt renewed rage at the bullies, that they had ganged up, four of them against this girl who was probably the smallest in their class. 

“Thank you for sending them away,” she said, hesitating before she decided to hold a hand out. “I’m Belle French.”

He shook her hand, amused by her attempt at adult manners. Well, better an awkward attempt at manners, than to have none at all. 

“Nice to meet you, Miss French. I’m Lester Gold.” 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He never offered his first name to anyone. 

“Lester?” she repeated, and he braced himself for the inevitable teasing. “Like the poem?” 

“What poem?”

“Never mind. It was written ages ago. It’s not like it was written about you, Mr. Gold,” she rambled. “Sorry… I just tend to relate everything back to a book I’ve read.”

She shrugged in a self-deprecating way, biting her lip and looking down.

“They’re wrong about you, you know,” he told her. 

“Wrong about what?” 

“I don’t think you’re a weirdo.” 

“But you’re a grown-up,” she pointed out. “Grown-ups don’t think the same as kids.” 

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “Have those girls been bothering you all year?” 

She shrugged. 

“They’ve never been nice,” she admitted. “But it’s gotten worse lately, since Emma was adopted by the Nolans. They used to pick on her the most, for being the foster kid, but now she’s adopted by the fifth grade teacher and the town sheriff, so they backed off her real quick. And when they found out I was leaving at the end of the school year, it’s like they decided to push me around as much as possible, before they lose their chance forever.” 

“Your family is leaving?” he asked. He hadn’t heard anything about it. He wondered if their house would be going on the market, and made a mental note to check the value of the house. It could be a valuable addition to his growing list of properties. 

“Yeah. Papa hates it here. He wants to go back home to Australia. We’re leaving next week, so I came to return all my library books, but I sat down to re-read my favorite parts of each.” She smiled wistfully, holding _ Hunchback _ to her chest. “Like a last chance to say goodbye to old friends… is that silly?” 

“Not at all. I count many books amongst my best friends,” he reassured her. 

“I love books,” she confessed. “Mama says I learned to read earlier than any child she’s ever heard of, and I’ve been reading ever since.” 

“Did you read all of these?” He gestured to the sizable pile on the table. 

“Well, duh.” She rolled her eyes. There was an average kid in there after all. “What’s the point in checking books out from the library, if you don’t read them?” 

“Obviously,” he said, trying not to smile too broadly. He didn’t want her to think he was making fun of her, but honestly, he was enjoying this conversation more than any other in recent memory. “May I look at your choices? Perhaps I’ve read some of the same ones.” 

“Okay.” 

He picked through the pile, impressed by the difficulty level of the books she’d borrowed. She must be a very advanced reader for her age, and told her so. 

“That’s what everyone says.” She beamed at the compliment. 

“I’m not familiar with this one,” he said, holding up _ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn _. “Would you like to tell me about it?” 

“That one is wonderful! The narrator, Francie, she’s a bookworm like me. She reads a new book every day, and _ two _ on Saturdays! Her family doesn’t have much money, but she works hard and finds a way to attend university, and she even gets a job where she gets _ paid _ to read the newspaper every day.” 

“That sounds like a reader’s dream job,” he said, amused by her enthusiasm. “Do you know where Brooklyn is?” 

“I looked on a map for it, because after I read this, I so wanted to go there. It’s part of New York City, and it’s not so far away, and Mama wanted to go too, but Papa said it would cost too much money.” 

“That’s too bad. Maybe one day, when you’re grown up, you’ll get to go.” 

“Maybe,” she sighed. “Have you read any of the other books?” 

“Several of them, in fact. The one I’d most like to discuss, is the one you’re holding.” 

“Oh.” She looked down, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. “_ The Hunchback of Notre Dame _? It’s so beautifully written, but so tragic. I cried for Quasimodo. Everyone was so awful to him.” 

“Correct, on all counts. And you pronounce the title correctly, unlike that horrible brat that was harassing you earlier.” 

“My mama grew up in France. I learned French from her. One day, I’ll read the works of classic French literature in their original language,” she declared. 

“That’s very ambitious of you.” 

“I can do it,” she said, lifting her chin and pinning him with a direct stare, as though daring him to argue with her.

He had no doubt that she would, if she set her mind to it. She was clearly intelligent, and something told him that she knew her value and would never let the world convince her that she was worth any less. 

“Mr. Gold?” Mrs. Parrish stood a few feet away; he hadn’t seen her approach. “Did you need to tell me something?” 

“Ahh, yes. I’ll be sending someone to deal with the problem tomorrow. Also, I’ll be sending people to do more work on the apartment, to get it ready to be rented.” 

“There’s an apartment in the library?” Belle asked, her blue eyes becoming even brighter. 

“Indeed there is. Right above our heads. Usually, the Head Librarian lives there.” 

She looked up, as if she hoped to see it through the ceiling. 

“Someone gets to live in a library. They’re_ so _ lucky.” 

“Were you returning these books, Belle?” Mrs. Parrish asked, drawing her attention back to the conversation. 

“Oh… yes.” She sighed, and set _ Hunchback _ on top before picking up the stack and handing them to the librarian. “I suppose it’s time to give them back.” 

Mrs. Parrish skimmed the titles quickly. 

“You didn’t check out your favorite this time?” 

“No. I’d like to read it again before I leave, but I may not have time. We’re going to be busy with packing.” 

“I’m going to miss you, Belle. You’ve been my most dedicated patron, this past year.”

She patted Belle’s shoulder before taking the books back to the desk.

“Which book is your favorite?” Mr. Gold asked, curious about her answer. 

“Can I show you?” she asked, and her smile made him smile back. 

“Of course.” 

He followed her between the shelves, hurrying to keep up because she was nearly jogging. She obviously knew exactly where she was going. She stopped in the fiction section and picked up one of the many stools made available for patrons, setting it before the correct shelf and stepping up to reach above her head, pulling down a large book. 

The cover was blue, with gold lettering. _ Her Handsome Hero _, it read. A knight, with shield and sword at the ready, completed the cover art. 

“This seems…” He paused, groping for the right word. “A little more mundane than I would expect, given your other reading choices.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, it looks like a standard adventure romance. Isn’t it?” 

“No. It’s so much more than that. Gideon -- the hero of the story -- he’s not a hero because he slays monsters. He’s a hero because he sees past their monstrous appearance, and has compassion for them. He saves the monsters, and that’s what makes Alma fall in love with him.” 

“I stand corrected,” he said, handing it back to her. “How did you find this book?” 

“My mother checked it out first. Then she asked if I wanted to read it, and I’ve borrowed it several times since. We’re practically the only ones who have ever checked it out… look.” 

She opened the back cover and pulled out the card there, showing him the list of handwritten names with stamped due dates next to them. Nearly every name on the list was Belle French, with her mother’s name, Colette French, also appearing once. Before Colette, it looked like the book hadn’t been checked out for years. 

“So you and your mother have similar taste in books.” 

“We both love this one, at least. Mama wanted to buy a copy for us to keep, but she looked and couldn’t find it anywhere. This is the only place she’s ever seen it.”

“Something in this book obviously spoke to you,” he said, handing it back. 

“Yes. When I grow up, I want to be a hero like Gideon. Not the sort that fights battles, but the sort that helps people in other ways, with forgiveness and caring.” 

“That’s a worthy goal… though you don’t have to wait till you’re grown to be that sort of hero. There’s almost always someone who needs forgiveness, and even small acts of compassion can mean a lot. You can be that sort of hero today, if you want.” 

She looked down at the book in her hands. He could tell that the idea hadn’t occurred to her. She finally looked up, giving him that wide smile again. 

“Maybe I will.” She sighed, and turned back to the stool, ready to step up. 

“Wait,” he said, before he knew he planned to say it. “Why don’t you keep it, as a going-away present? I’ll pay the library for it.”

Her eyes went huge. 

“You can _ buy _ books from the library?” 

“Usually, no. But I’ll arrange it, since it means so much to you.” 

She hugged the book to herself and whispered, “Thank you.” 

When they approached the desk and Gold informed Mrs. Parrish that he would be paying for the book, she started to object. It was a knee-jerk reaction, he knew, so he simply leveled a look at her and waited for her to reconsider. One glance at Belle, embracing _ Her Handsome Hero _ as though it were her best friend, and the librarian said kindly that perhaps an exception could be made. 

The happy squeal that emerged from the girl convinced Gold that he’d made the right choice. He didn’t often go out of his way to make others happy, but this one small gesture was making _ him _ happy. 

“Best gather your things, Belle, and head on home. It’s getting dark and the library will be closing soon,” Mrs. Parrish advised. 

She scurried away to get her bag, which she’d left by the chair. Gold handed Mrs. Parrish a stack of cash that was surely more than the book was worth, confirmed a convenient time for the repairman to come the next day, and held the door open for Miss French as she waved goodbye to the librarian and they exited the building. 

She stopped just before stepping onto the sidewalk, and peered both ways down the street. 

“I believe your tormentors have gone, but if you like, I’ll walk with you as far as your street, and make sure you get inside safely. I’m headed that way myself.” 

The slump of her shoulders expressed her relief, and they walked the four blocks to the point where she turned left for her house. It was visible from the corner, so he urged her to go on, and he would wait on the corner till she went inside. 

“Thanks again for the book, Mr. Gold!” she called, as she waved from her porch. 

He waved back as the door behind her opened, and a woman with Belle’s same petite build and long dark hair gestured her inside. He heard an excited voice say, “Mama, look!” before the door closed behind them. 

He smiled to himself. He was unaccustomed to being anyone’s hero, but he felt like one today. Perhaps it didn’t take so much effort, after all. 

He decided that he could collect the rent tomorrow, and instead continued home for the much-anticipated rest, food, and Scotch. While his dinner warmed in the oven, he sat down at the computer for a moment, making a note about his visit to the library. He emailed his preferred contractors about the work that needed to be done and asked for estimates. Opening another program, he documented which tenants had paid today, and which ones he would need to track down tomorrow. 

Finished with record-keeping for the moment, he started to push back from his desk, but something the French girl said was tickling his brain. Resigned that he wouldn’t be able to relax until he answered the question, he opened a search bar on the Internet and typed “Lester poem.” 

It popped up quickly enough, and since all the top results seemed to be for the same poem, he assumed that was the one Miss French had referenced. [ He clicked on the first link to read it. ](https://voetica.com/voetica.php?collection=2&poet=679&poem=6714) It wasn’t very long. He read it quickly, then again more slowly, and a third time. It wasn’t till the oven timer went off several minutes later that he got up, to walk through his spacious but empty home filled with material possessions, to the kitchen where he retrieved his dinner and ate it without tasting. 

After dinner, he sat with his Scotch and current book for a bit, but the pages went unturned and he only occasionally remembered to sip his drink. His drink was left unfinished on the table when he decided to turn in early. Sleep didn’t come easily. He laid in the dark for a long time, staring at the ceiling that he couldn’t see. 

*** * ***

_ Ten years later… _

At one time in his career, he’d stayed open late on Thursday nights, to give any prospective shoppers who worked during the day the opportunity to come in and browse his stock. Now, though… he had loved ones to spend his time with, and more important places to be than at work. 

With that in mind, he was counting the money in the register and preparing to close when the bell over the door announced the arrival of a customer at five minutes till 6:00. He glanced up from his counting, annoyed. Technically, the shop was still open, but he hoped whoever it was didn’t plan to browse for an hour without buying anything. 

The sight of his customer made him lose track of the numbers he’d been muttering to himself. She was… beautiful, in an ethereal way. She stopped to inspect a mobile of glass unicorns that he’d hung near the front of the shop, turned in profile to him, letting him admire her figure for a moment without her being aware. She looked to be in her early twenties, with the glow of youth and good health. A short dress showed off her legs to great advantage, and showcased her curves. Chestnut hair fell in curls down her back. He closed the drawer without a thought and tried to sound welcoming. 

“Good evening, miss. Can I help you find something?” 

She turned, and he got his first good look at her eyes. Bright blue, and with an intelligence and friendliness to them. Eyes that were studying him, with an intensity that he was unaccustomed to seeing from customers. Her lips parted, but it was a moment longer before she spoke. 

“Good evening, Mr. Gold. I’m here for your restoration services. Do you still restore old books?” She had a beautiful accent. Australian, he thought. He’d heard an accent like hers somewhere before, and not just from movies. 

“I don’t do it often, but I can if need be,” he answered, curiosity piqued. 

Although he sometimes restored old books that he bought at antique shows, it wasn’t usually requested by a walk-in customer. As far as he knew, no one in Storybrooke even knew of that particular skill of his, but this woman wasn’t from Storybrooke. He would have remembered her if he’d seen her around town, he was sure of it. Although there was something familiar about her, he was sure she didn’t live here. 

“Will you look at my book? It’s very old and in need of some TLC.” 

“Of course.” She opened her bag, and he couldn’t resist asking, “How did you know that I restore old books? It’s not something that I advertise.” 

“You restored a book for my mother once. She said you did an excellent job.” 

His curiosity increased another notch, and he was about to ask for details when she pulled out a book-shaped object, wrapped in soft cloth and tied with string, and laid it on the counter. Carefully, she untied and unwrapped till the cover was visible, and he stared for a moment. 

Blue cover, gold lettering, with an illustration of a knight… he’d only seen this book once before in his life. He’d tried to find another copy, without success. He reached out to touch it, lightly, before looking up at the woman in front of him again. 

He could see it, now… her features had matured, but those striking blue eyes hadn’t changed. 

“Miss French?” 

“Oh,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You remember me?” 

“Of course… and your book. Both of you are very memorable.” They gazed at each other for a long moment, till it became awkward and he looked away, fumbling for something else to say. “I thought you moved back to Australia.” 

“I did, ten years ago. I recently finished my studies there and was looking for my first job. I’m now the new librarian for Storybrooke,” she smiled, obviously proud of the title. 

“Ahh, yes. It’s been closed for a few weeks, since Mrs. Parrish retired. I have to say though, I never imagined that someone would apply for the position from the other side of the world.” 

“I can’t imagine it happens often, no,” she laughed. “And it wouldn’t have in my case, except that I was hoping to work in the US, and I’d stayed in sporadic touch with Mrs. Parrish via email. She mentioned her impending retirement, a few months ago. I have such fond memories of spending a year in that library, happily reading in the corner. I also remembered that there was an apartment above it, and…” She trailed off, and shrugged. “Did you ever get an idea in your head when you were a kid, and it just stuck?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, when I left Storybrooke, I swore one day I’d come back to be Head Librarian of Storybrooke, and live in that apartment. And here I am,” she said, laughing as she spread her arms to indicate not just his shop, but the town. 

“Here you are,” he agreed. “Well, Storybrooke is lucky to have you back, Miss French.” 

“You can call me Belle,” she offered. “There’s no need for formality. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” 

“We are indeed,” he said, trying to sound casual when in reality, his heart beat a little faster at her easy declaration of friendship. He didn’t have many friends, and certainly none as enchanting as Miss French… Belle, he corrected himself. He realized that she was looking at him, as though waiting for him to say something. “You may... call me Lester, if you wish.” 

“Thank you.” They shared a smile, and he felt his trepidation at offering his name, fade away. “So, Lester… do you think you can help my book?” 

He inspected it, careful of its loose pages and ripped binding. 

“It will take some time, but I’ll restore it to its original glory,” he promised. “I remember this book well, and how important it was to you.” 

“Still is.” She smiled again, but this time it seemed tinged with sadness. “This book has been a comfort to me in difficult times, and I haven’t forgotten that you’re the one who gave it to me… or that you defended me from bullies, or the way you befriended me that afternoon. I feel like I never properly thanked you.” 

“Seeing that you still have the book all these years later, and it has obviously been, shall we say, well-loved, is all the thanks I need.” 

“Still, I’d love to thank you in a more concrete way. Could I take you to dinner tonight?” 

“Uh…” he said, losing his composure. Was she asking him out? His brain stuttered for a moment, before he remembered the reason he’d been so eager to close on time. “Actually, I already have dinner plans, with my son and his family.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s okay,” she said, looking down and biting her lip. Was she that disappointed? 

“I’d love for you to join us,” he offered, wondering whether he was saying the right thing. Perhaps her offer -- and her apparent disappointment -- had only been a polite act. She remembered an adult who’d been kind to her as a child, and offered to have dinner with him out of some feeling of obligation. He opened his mouth, ready to withdraw his offer and take the pressure off her, when she spoke.

“I didn’t know you had a son. I mean…” She hesitated. “I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, but ten years ago it was well-known that you lived alone, and didn’t have anyone in your life.” 

Of course… she would have no way of knowing how much his life had changed since then. 

“I didn’t, then. I adopted Neal as a teenager, perhaps two years after you left town,” he explained. “I believe you know his wife. Emma was at Storybrooke Elementary at the same time you attended.” 

“Emma Swan? The girl that the teacher and sheriff adopted?” 

“One and the same. You might recall that they adopted Emma from foster care?” She nodded. “They were a huge help to me, when I decided to do the same. When Neal moved here to live with me, he and Emma bonded over their shared experiences. They’ve been close ever since.” 

“And now they’re married.” 

“Yes… and they have a son, Henry. He’s almost a year old.” 

“And they say nothing changes in small towns,” she laughed. 

“Well, very little does… but children do have a tendency to grow up… like you did.” 

Though there were days when he’d mourned how quickly Neal grew to adulthood, he couldn’t be sorry that the young girl he’d met ten years ago, had matured into the attractive woman who stood before him now. 

He realized, belatedly, that she’d said something, and had to ask her to repeat herself. 

“I’d love to meet them, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be imposing,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. Was she laughing at him? No matter; he didn’t care if she was. 

“I’m very sure,” he said, gathering his composure. “I’m treating them to dinner tonight, so I insist that you join us as my guest.” 

“On one condition -- that you let me take you to dinner on a different night. Just the two of us. We can talk, and get… reacquainted.” 

She reached out, and laid her hand over his on the counter. He had to remind himself to breathe, and fought to sound normal when he answered. 

“You have a deal, Belle.” As if he’d ever say no to spending time with this bewitching creature, who insisted on taking him out on what sounded very much like a date. 

He left the register; he could count it tomorrow. He was careful to re-wrap _ Her Handsome Hero _ and set it in a cabinet in the back, where it would be safe. Turning out the lights, he escorted Belle out the door and locked it. 

“Where are you meeting your family for dinner?” she asked, as she took his offered arm. 

“Do you remember Granny’s?” 

“Do I ever! Does she still make those amazing hamburgers?” 

“Oh yes. Some things have changed in Storybrooke, but not that.” 

“So what else has changed in the past ten years?” Belle asked, as they made their way toward the diner. “I have a lot of catching up to do. I’m hoping you won’t mind being my primary resource.” 

He glanced sideways at her, and almost missed a step at the way she was smiling at him. No, he wouldn’t mind at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Lester" by Shel Silverstein can be read here: https://voetica.com/voetica.php?collection=2&poet=679&poem=6714


End file.
